Bury Fear
by Tea Cup Sheik
Summary: It was 6:30 in the morning, and Gregory was about to die.
1. Chapter 1

It was 6:30 in the morning, and Gregory was about to die. To be honest, it wasn't a surprise. He'd suspected as much when everything had gone wrong twenty minutes before. Hell, he'd even thought it briefly when he'd heard _that_ news the night previous. Gregory wasn't used to solo missions. His place was behind a desk or in front of a rioting crowd, where the setting or rising sun would catch in his hair and reflect the flag, or rapier, or whatever else looked heroic at that moment. Whatever it was, Gregory would be sure to do it impressively. Or eloquently. Or perhaps even poetically, if he could over ride his fellows with enough of his natural charisma.

But when he'd heard _that_ news…

There was no striking image for the history books now. It was just a teenager running in fear through the dead looking trees. Bloody hell, even the lighting was all wrong! Somewhere in the distance and fog the sun was starting to rise, tinting everything a muted grey-yellow. It certainly didn't catch in Gregory's hair or clothes (which were, admittedly, rather messed up), nor did it frame him from behind in a dramatic action shot fit for a movie.

Frankly, Gregory was out of his element.

He was even more out of it a second later when the earth dropped out from under him and the world tipped. The teen flailed with all his might, trying to escape the inevitable. But he knew it was helpless. He was going to fall.

He was going to die.

The boy landed hard, flat on his back. There he lay and let his thoughts catch up with him, looking around to take in his situation. He was in a hole. Right away Gregory knew it was one of _his_, and he clamped his eyes shut as if that would postpone the obvious. So it was true. Gregory had hoped… He'd really hoped that-

_Double-crossed._

that it was anyone but _him_.

But this wasn't the time to feel sentimental. It wasn't the time to feel anything. He just had to think! Gregory had beaten _him_ before. He'd do it again. He just had to look around and get a clearer picture of -

Oh bugger. There was a sharpened stick protruding from his leg. Gregory made to cringe away, and felt a strange pull near his shoulder. He blinked, and glanced over. Oh bugger indeed! His shoulder had been impaled as well, and the bottom of this stick hadn't broken off, and was still anchored into the mud. As soon as he'd noticed them, the injuries began to hurt. Gregory bit back a groan, cursing his nerves for catching on so quickly and popping him out of shocked numbness.

He brought his uninjured arm up and shoved his hand in his mouth to keep from screaming. He needed to be absolutely quiet. He knew it, but knowing and doing were two completely different things. It took all of his considerable self-control to keep his sounds to pained gasps, before, after a couple of moments; he pulled himself together and allowed himself to calculate his situation again. It was bad, but it didn't exactly take someone of his high intelligence to figure out that much. He could still hear the alarms blaring in the distance and human yells creeping closer. He needed to get out, and quick!

The boy sucked in a deep breath, and carefully pulled his shoulder up as high as he could, unable to prevent a small yelp. He'd been injured before, but rarely this badly. His entire left side was burning, the throbbing pain wrapping around his heart and tightening his chest. He grabbed the base of the stake just beneath his shoulder and pulled up with all his might, ignoring the rush of warmth over his hand. He couldn't pull them out of his skin, though his senses were begging him to. That would lead to him bleeding to death within minutes. Yet, he also couldn't just sit there and wait to be found. If he wasn't shot on sight, he'd be dragged back for questioning. And, to be honest, he preferred the bullet to the brain. So he worked on pulling the rooted stake up, so he could snap off the ends and focus on the next part of the escape plan.

It was much easier to read about these survival tactics in the comfort of his posh armchair at home then to actually get the nerve up to do them. How had _he_ (Gregory's mind bitterly refused to use the traitor's name, but there were images, oh boy were there images…) managed to do this sort of stuff all the time? It must have been genetics. Gregory had experience in this area, but he shone much brighter in the parts where he weaved words around crowds and pieced together every little shred of information. No, this laying in the mud and bleeding out was much more his favorite mercenary's area of expertise.

And, because of that, it was clear that he was outmatched.

Even so, Gregory screwed up his face and kept up the agonizing process of getting free, unwilling to give up. Finally, after minutes that seemed to blend into hours, he was sitting up and snapping the excess length of stick as best he could. He was lucky they were thin, and that all of the ones across the bottom were spaced far apart and were sparse, as if the person placing them wasn't exactly committed to the idea. That part must not have been _his_ doing. If _he'd_ been in charge of them, Gregory would most definitely be dead already.

The boy pulled out the binding he always brought on missions from his pocket and tried, one handedly to tie it around his leg and other arm. He had to slow the bleeding down as much as he could, especially if he was going to scale the walls.

Gregory looked up and swallowed harshly. The outer brim was around fifteen feet above his head. He shakily stood, leaning heavily on the wall – which proved to be muddy with rain. He reached up and tried to dig into the earth for purchase, but no matter how he struggled he couldn't get a grip. His breathing was labored now, probably way too loud, and his mind buzzed with panic as his good hand slipped over the surface slick with mud and blood.

He gave up for a moment, and slid back down to a heap on the bottom.

Shit. Shit, shit shit. That was all he could think, in time with his frantic heartbeats.

Something caught in his throat, and he coughed. A coppery warmth filled his mouth, and the British teen nearly gagged and got even more blood on his already ruined shirt. His poor clothes! He hated to let a good pair go like this! These had been specially ordered from Paris- oh. The city name brought back a rush of images, nearly all of them of _him_. Smoking from the balcony of the Eiffel tower, fighting in that bar, moonlight from the hotel's window highlighting the dark shadows under _his_ eyes as he moved above him-

Gregory snipped that line of thought harshly, almost whimpering from the combination of pain, hopelessly, and-

_Betrayal_.

He'd suspected it from anyone else. In his line of work, it was just a way of life. But not from _him_. Never from _him_.

Gregory frowned as his vision danced before his eyes. He needed to snap out of it. He wasn't some fresh meat-noobie for a mission to chew up and spit out. Even if he were to die soon, he wouldn't make it easy for Death to finally catch up to him and make him pay back the nineteen years he'd spent dodging him. Nor would he make it easy for _him_.

With these thoughts running through his veins, he gathered himself together and sat up again, careful not to jostle his leg and shoulder too much. He couldn't get his hand deep enough into the wall to support himself, but perhaps if he took some of the sticks and stuck them into the sides hard enough they'd form some hand holds... It wasn't much of a shot, but it was the only thing his pain-muddled brain could come up with.

He shuffled over on his belly towards the nearest stake in the ground, breath ragged and ears straining to hear the sounds of yelling. They seemed to be traveling farther away... Or was it just that his hearing was starting to fade?

Whichever it was, Gregory started to wrestle with an embedded stick, trying to shake it loose and not pass out from the movement. How in the devil was he supposed to climb up the walls if he could barely pull a stick from the ground? He was just taking a break, victoriously clutching one snapped up stick in his hand when there was a sound behind and above him. Gregory flipped over, the well practiced reaction relatively smooth despite his injuries, and grabbed for the gun on his hip. In a flash it was out of the hostler and pointed up at the person standing at the edge of the pitt, who was-

Oh bugger it all!

There, standing with his own gun ready and a cigarette in his mouth was the one person Gregory would have lounged to see when facing death just twenty-four hours before. But now, it was just like looking at the grim reaper himself. As soon as Gregory had gotten that fateful info leak, they'd practically blended to one anyway...

"Crist-" Gregory cut himself off, refusing to use that name. "Mole." He snapped instead, annoyed at how strained his own voice was.

The mercenary stared down at him, brown eyes unreadable in the dim light. Or was it just dim because his eyes were now failing? Both of the boys kept their guns aimed at each other, though Gregory's was shaking and dipping so much that he might has well have been Tweek. His vision was also starting to waver again in the effort of keeping it upright, but he refused to look away.

They'd once been so much. Co-workers, comrades, friends... And, and, well... _So much more_.

It would all end with the tug of a finger.

Images were starting to flash through his head. He was remembering walking for the first time, the first time his father passed him a foil, his first cup of tea...

Oh dear, it seemed like his life was flashing before his eyes. He must have been farther gone then he'd thought, because now, instead of seeing the gun or the threat before him, he was back in his garden in London, meeting the Mole for the first time...

o-o-o-o

Well, here goes my first attempt at a multiple-chapter fic. Because I'm new at it, I have a couple questions. Do you like, quicker, shorter chapters? Or slower, longer, ones? : o Also, please tell me what you think by reviewing, so I'll know if I should go on or not. I know that there are a few of these start in the future and then jump to the beginning and work back towards the start, but I think it's because it's so much fun to plan out the characters growing up and growing together. This won't be all encompassing though, and will focus on all of the biggest moments for them. c:


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Oh boy, sorry it's taken so long! I like typing fanfics up on my netbook, which is something I can only use at my friends house because I can borrow her power cord. Anyway, I'm not so fond of this chapter. _ I'll be much more into it when they're older, I think. This chapter was going to be muuuch longer too, but I guessed that people probably prefer me to chop longer things up into multiple chapters for easier reading. If this is/isn't true please tell me, since I'm new to this multichapter scene. Also, I'm trying to wrap my mind around using stiff-sounding dialogue, since that's how Gregory talks. xD Oh, and thanks to all my reviewers/people who added my story to their alerts. It makes me excited to go on~

PS: Sorry if there are a lot of mistakes. It's 2:30 a.m, and I have no proofreader.

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or its characters.

OoOoOoO

When Gregory Thorne met Christophe DeLorne for the first time his body was five and his mind was a few years older. It was relatively sunny for an autumn day in London, a nice reprieve from the rainy weeks that had gone before it – though the grounds in the garden and around the Thorne manner were still mushy and unfit for running around on. Well, if one didn't want to get an earful from the maids and mum about ruined shoes at least, which was something Gregory didn't wish to repeat. So, the area in which he could enjoy the surprisingly good weather was limited to the cobble courtyard in the center of their garden and the stone paths leading up to it.

Still, after weeks being cooped up inside, Gregory had eagerly scurried outside with his foil as soon as he'd jumped out of bed. He'd been banned from practicing his fencing inside four days before, right after a mishap involving a curtain and antique desk that acquired a rapid decline in worth after Gregory had declared them enemies. However embarrassing it was to be caught, the experience had reminded him of the importance of hiding evidence…

"Take this, you ruffian!" He yelled, sweeping his foil from a feint and into a trompement against the dreaded skeletal pirate captain. Of course, the enemy fell apart with that mighty blow.

"That's what you get for having no connecting ligaments, you rogue!" The boy yelled, spinning around and picturing a better opponent to fight. Just as he was jumping forward to perform a ballestra against the pirate raptor he heard his father calling his name.

He hastily grabbed the tea table he'd moved for lunging space and drug it back to the center before answering.

"Yes, papa?"

William rounded the rose bushes, smiling when he saw his child with the sword. However Gregory was more interested in the people following his father. The man directly behind him was shorter than his dad, though he may have just appeared so because of his posture, which was hunched, with his arms close to his chest instead of confidently swinging with each straight-backed step like his dad. His hair was a dark brown mess, and his eyes were nearly black, which looked even darker when combined with the shadows under them. Gregory was shocked to see him walking behind his ever-stately father, because he was almost certain that if he looked up the word 'ruffian' in his picture dictionary, the image would be eerily similar to that man. He just looked so… _Low class_. The boy's eyes traveled down to the kid following both men, and he was surprised to see he was nearly a clone of the rough-looking man, though his eyes were a tad lighter and he clutched a flower pot with a rather ragged looking plant inside and had a shovel strapped to his back.

Gregory straightened, and smiled a politician's smile – the same kind he saw his father give all the time when he was surprised and not-all too pleased.

"You've brought me a playmate, father?" He asked, bringing up his foil to point towards the kid. That must have been it. His father sometimes associated with _these_ types for his job, but he'd never brought any of them inside the garden before. And why else would he include the other child, if not to play with him?

"Come then, boy. Let us spar." Gregory continued, mostly oblivious to the arrogance he was showing. He was mainly concerned with showing off the new moves he'd picked up from the main butler. Oh, papa would be so impressed!

The kid scowled (or scowled more, since he was doing so to begin with), and looked up at the man who Gregory assumed was his father, as if he didn't comprehend what was going on. How foolish he was! The man snapped something in another language, and the other boy looked back at Gregory and stared harshly, eyes cold and hostile.

Oh dear. Gregory felt slightly uncomfortable, and even a little bit worried. None of the kids he'd ever played with had looked at him like that. With awe and envy perhaps, but the expression the other boy was showing him now seemed almost like it only belonged on the face of someone much older. Even so, Gregory couldn't let his twinges of intimidation show. His father was standing right there after all!

"Oh, go on then Christophe!" Mr. Thorne said, chuckling and ruffling the boy's hair, making his face pinch together in irritation. Gregory stored away the name Christophe along with the kid's face in his memory, as his dad had always stressed the importance of always knowing as much as you could about someone, and laughed along with his father.

"There is another practice foil to your left." Gregory said, motioning to it. Christophe's eyes flicked to it, and his frown deepened. He looked at his dad, who nodded.

"Don't worry yourself; I'll go easy on you." Gregory said, sweeping his hair back with his free hand. "After all attended Oxs-" He was cut off when a flowerpot came sailing at his face. Taken totally by surprise, the boy dropped his weapon and brought his hands up to block. It smashed into his arms, spraying dirt all over his clothes (his poor clothes! Mother would be so displeased!) and into his face. Already off balance, he offered up little resistance when something shoved him backwards. He landed hard on his back, and the air was expelled from his lungs with an undignified "oomph". Then, before he could collect any of his thoughts, the tip of a shovel was being pressed lightly against his throat.

Gregory blinked in confusion, eyes darting from his discarded weapon, to the other boys scowl, and then to shovel bearing down on him. Finally, he was able to pull himself together in order to speak.

"That's cheating!" He said, voice sounding more awestruck than upset. No one had ever, ever, dared to do something like that to him before. It broke all the codes of sportsmanship! What kind of gentlemen threw a flowerpot in a friendly fencing match?

Christophe pulled his shovel away sharply and stalked away without even a second glance. Gregory sat up, feeling a mixture of confusion, irritation, and embarrassment. The latter was only increased when his ears stopped buzzing and he heard his father laughing with good humor and thumping the man's back. Face burning, he stood up and brushed of the dirt, trying to look dignified.

"I must say, father, I don't feel I should be playing with Rouges." He said, pointedly not looking at the messy looking man or his unsportmanly-dirt throwing-cheating worm of a son. "After all, I attend Oxshire, and currently have a four-oh grade average." Saying that made him feel better by a bit. He bet that the shovel-wielding maniac didn't have that much to brag about, even if he'd managed to knock Gregory over!

Mr. Thorne grinned, and shook his head.

"Don't be silly, son! Today is a big day for both of you." He said.

Gregory frowned, and ran through important dates in his head.

"Yes, of course." He ended up saying to save face, despite coming up with nothing. He didn't like the way that the two ruffians were staring at him, so he crossed his arms and pretended that they didn't exist again. His dad's smile was small now, understanding. A bruised pride hurt, after all. Instead of calling his son out on his bluff, just put his hand on Gregory's shoulder and steered him towards the house.

"Today is the day you boys learn some stuff about our line of work." He said, motioning for the other two to follow.

"We trust you'll find it rather interesting…"

OoOoOoO

Hopefully you'll find it interesting too! The next chapter will be up faster (probably), since a lot of it was written and included in this chapter originally (until I did a word count and decided not to overwhelm you guys). And Christophe and his dad will actually talk! Still, please review this if you have the time. Even a smilie (or frownie,I guess xD) face would be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Um, wow, sorry for how long it's taken to update. College happened. :'c However, I've re-found most of the notes I made for this, and I'm excited to continue. I'm looking forward to whenever I get to write them older. u Anyway, please R&R!

Gregory tried to brush off as much of the dirt as he could as they drew closer to the house, irked by the feeling of it in his hair. Unlike most of the other kids in his class, playing around in anything potentially messy was something he treated with distain. After all, his parents were always explaining that everything in society had its own place. The queen belonged in her palace, the maids belonged in the staff building, the low class belonged in the slums, and dirt belonged on the ground. It certainly didn't belong anywhere on a person.

Gregory glanced over at the boy walking to his left, and crinkled his nose. He apparently hadn't gotten that memo. Gregory wasn't even sure if Christophe was actually tanner than him, or if he was just caked completely in a layer of filth. He glanced down at the other boy's hands, and nearly shuddered at the state of his nails. What was his father thinking, bringing such a shoddy looking fellow into their home? Mother would have a fit!

Christophe finally realized that he was being observed, and turned his head to glare at the Brit. Gregory flinched slightly at the intense hostility in the other's eyes, but bit the inside of his cheek and refused to look away. He was a Thorne, and they weren't afraid of anything! Not even flower-pot throwing ruffians! Christophe was the first to look away, eyebrows drawn tight together and hands clenching. Gregory breathed out in relief and turned back to pay attention to where they were headed.

The Thorne's main house was a certifiable mansion, one that had apparently been standing for as long as anyone could remember. According to the genealogical records stored in their 3rd floor library, multiple generations of Thornes had all lived in it and added to its worth. Their attic and study was filled to the brim with various expensive and rare artifacts which, aside from the added right to brag, proved to provide great places to hide when Gregory played hide and seek. However, the most beautiful part of the house was probably the entranceway – which was why the British boy wasn't shocked to hear Christophe gasp and say something Gregory couldn't distinguish (he disparagingly guessed that it was probably some form of theives' cant).

The stain-glass front door opened into a short hall with a wide archway, of which almost every inch was covered in a mural that would have fit right at home in an European renaissance museum.

The adults walked forward without even a glance at the paintings or crystal chandelier, but Christophe seemed to be frozen in the doorway, eyes as wide as saucers. His gaze was traveling over everything, from the men and horses on the walls to the angels on the ceiling, his eyebrows high and mouth slightly agape.

"Perhaps you have more taste than I assumed," Gregory said. He beamed at the other's apparent wonder, feeling his animosity towards him fade a bit.

"Notice the delicate brushstrokes and vivid colors, similar to what you'd find in France centuries ago" he said, motioning towards the walls with his nose in the air. Christophe still seemed to be in a bit of a daze, his eyes darting around as if to soak in as much of the image as he could. Gregory's brows rose, and he tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"You… Actually like art, don't you?" he asked.

"Oui." Came the reply, so soft that Gregory wasn't sure if he was hearing things or not.

And then, in the very next instant, the spell was broken and Christophe was glaring at him again. "Wee?" Gregory asked, blinking. "The bathrooms ov-" He was cut off when Christophe rammed into his shoulder as he hurried past, making him nearly fall over for the second time that day. Flustered with irritation, Gregory followed.

They walked through the main hall without another pause, Christophe looking at his feet as they went, as if determined to keep up an air of disinterest after the moment of weakness. After traveling down the main hall for quite a while Gregory's dad took a left into their secondary library room. Gregory brightened, and rushed past the others to stand in front of one of the bookshelves against the wall.

"Is today the day that you'll tell me about the secret room behind that bit of wall?" He asked, momentarily letting excitement override his caution. Then he froze and glanced guiltily at his father, who was suddenly looking confused and disapproving.

"How long have you…?"

"Oh, don't be silly, of course I've known about it for ages." Gregory said, crossing his arms. Really, did his dad take him for a simpleton? He was always the one preaching about Thornes never letting any shred of information escape notice. And, though Gregory had never been able to get the door to open on his own, he'd seen how it was supposed to be done. The underside of the cinch armchair in the corner of the room was a perfect hiding spot to lay in wait…

Gregory stared nervously at his father, whose expression shifted into amusement after a moment. In fact, he laughed again, and slapped Christophe's father's shoulder.

"Didn't I say he was sharp, Claude? Chip off the old block, eh?"

The man's (Gregory mentally memorized the name Claude) expression didn't shift from annoyance.

"Can we just 'urry? 'Ez muzzar doesn't know 'ez 'ere?"

Gregory started at the very thick accent. He felt a bit affronted, as a good English gentleman, that the Queen's speech was being treated like—

"Claude and his family are French." Gregory's father said warningly, noting Gregory's expression.

"Oh yes, of course." He replied meekly, though he didn't quite understand. No one had bothered to mention what France was in his kindergarten, and he'd only heard the term once or twice, and each time it'd been said to excuse naughty words. He stared up at Claude. Well, if anyone ever looked like he'd spout curses, it'd be him…

Without another word, but with a cheeky look, Mr. Thorne went over to the bookshelf and reached his arm behind it. There was the slightest sound of manicured nails tapping against keys, but none of the tell-tale beeps you'd hear in spy movies. Of course, Gregory knew that part, otherwise he'd have tried to piece together the numbers by the sound before, regardless of the fact that it might trigger an alarm. Gregory's curiosity often outweighed his caution.

After only a few seconds, there was a muffled click, and his father was able to reach a hand over and push a nearby bookshelf inwards. It swung open without a sound.

Chest tight with anticipation, Gregory ran one hand through his swept back hair, and even the feeling of flower pot grit against his scalp didn't extinguish the hum of excitement. He hurried to follow his father into the room that'd been a mystery to him since he'd first seen his father disappear in it, only half noticing that Claude gave an irritated jerk when he cut in front of him.

In fact, once inside, the two grubby strangers were pushed from his mind altogether. The room's walls were absolutely plastered with charts and maps, many of which were dotted by different colored pins and connected by thin thread. His heart hammered and his fingers itched at the thoughts of what he could infer from them. He had an obscenely large interest in maps and reports, and, well, information – disproportionate to his young age, he supposed, but then he himself was disproportionate to his own age too. It was rather a hassle, really.

But at least he kept a 4.0 grade average. That was very important, wasn't it?

The sound of interest that made it out of his lips was strangely echoed somewhere behind him, and he turned in head back to see Christohe's eyes darting around the room. Oh yes, those ruffians were still here, weren't they? Suddenly Gregory felt irritated by that fact. It was his father's room, his father's secrets, his father's reveal – the grubby strangers didn't belong. After a spoiled huff, he turned his head back around and decided to ignore them completely.

The only other thing in the room was a filing cabinet in the corner, and a neat desk with a single computer. Compared to the walls, it was almost eerily uncluttered. However, he wasn't fooled. He had the feeling that anything and everything could be found out on that singular computer, and his hands twitched in the desire to try to delve into its depths.

However, he waited politely as his dad approached and desk and sat back on it (a move which Mrs. Thorne would have disapproved of by loudly clearing her throat, and Gregory went to mime her, but managed to stop himself in the end).

"Information is everything." Mr. Thorne said. It was like the opening to a speech, but the blond boy was used to his father turning anything important into one. He'd even been picking it up lately, alongside the politician's smile. However, Mr. Thorne's smile looked genuine now, less wide and even slightly crooked.

"The pen doesn't just beat the sword, it controls it." He stressed the word 'controls', and he seemed to stare very hard at Christope and his father. Gregory, despite his earlier decision to ignore them, looked back to see neither of them looked very pleased. Their eyes were both narrowed and burned like coals. Chritophe's fingers went to his lips and he seemed to start to bite at his nails, which caused Gregory to remember the filthy state those nails had been in. He shuddered and fought back a wave of revolution before shifting his attention back to his father.

"When you're older-"

Ugh. There it was. There wasn't another prefix in the world that Gregory disliked more.

"Papa," he interrupted, "I assure you, I'm ready for-" He was cut off when Mr. Thorne lifted one finger to shush him.

"When you're both older," he repeated again (at the word 'both' he almost glanced behind him) "We'll tell you more of our… Families' business." He exchanged a secretive smile with Claude, who'd walked closer. Well, he would have if the other man was doing something other than glowering. For a brief second Gregory wondered if what his maid had said about your face freezing into unpleasant expressions could be true, and if it'd happened to the person before him, but he disregarded the thought quickly.

It wasn't like he was four anymore, after all.

"This," Mr. Thorne continued, "is just a taste." His hand went to the top of the computer.

"This is-" He was cut off when a phone rang, and everyone in the room gave a little jump. Gregory almost snickered when he noticed that Christophe had gone as far as balling his hands into fists and crouching. What a twitchy simpleton!

It wasn't like Gregory was still bitter about the flower pot. Nope, not at all.

Mr. Thorne stood up and walked sharply to a phone on the wall that Gregory hadn't noticed before. When he answered, the sound from the other line was muffled but fevered - frantic, even.

Interested, the blond leaned forward, but his father's face had gone hard and serious. "Both of you, out." He said, motioning with his hand towards the door.

Gregory felt affronted.

"But, dadd-"

"'E said, out!" This bark (there was no better word to describe how vicious the sound was – like it was from a street cur) came from Claude. He gripped his own son by the shoulder and gave him a rough shove. Surprised and intimidated, Gregory lurched forward and followed Christophe, who'd practically scurried out. The secret door slammed behind him, leaving both children alone.

Awkwardly, after a moment where he stewed in disappointment, Gregory turned to the other boy.

"Well, my fellow," he said, attempting to sound confident enough to cover the fact he'd fled so quickly, "what do you like to do for fun? Lacrosse? Badminton?"

Christophe stared hard at him, and Gregory was annoyed to see that he couldn't read anything in his harsh expression. Finally, after a moment, he spoke.

"I like to dig ze holes."

The only thing Gregory can think is: How crass.


	4. Chapter 4

Gregory was six the first time he deliberately sought out Christophe. He hadn't seen him since the day they'd met, months ago, and though the parting had gone just as badly as their greeting (involving a lawn ornament instead of a flowerpot), he really had no choice. As influential as his family was, a kindergartner – even one testing so high above his own age, could only establish so many connections that had any worth. Sure, he was 'friends' with the sons and daughters of politicians and old money, but they were more like seedlings at the moment, to be kept close and nurtured till they bore fruit.

No, he couldn't trust any of their baby-soft hands with this job, he needed ones that were rough, even if they had filth under their nails and calluses from throwing pots unfairly in a civil match of fencing.

Not that he was still bitter, or anything.

Gregory glanced up from the map he held, and stared hard at the dim sign that was displaying the bus's next stop. A balled up gum wrapper landed in his lap, and he flinched away in distaste before prodding it off into the floor. He could see why his family always insisted on being chaffered - public transport was simply appalling.

Every bump and pothole in the road (appearing with more frequency the further towards his goal they got) reverberated through the bus's ancient frame, rattling the blonde's very bones. The scent of the person next to him alone would have driven him back into the safety of his clean mansion if his reason for coming hadn't been so important, but he tried hard to convince himself that the smell of stale vomit and alcohol added to the adventure.

"Aren't you a little too young to be 'lone?" The woman asked, swaying slightly in her seat. Gregory said nothing, having preemptively held his breath to avoid having to smell the stranger's, but then he let it out in an exasperated noise as soon as she turned her head. Luckily for his stomach, his stop was next according to the map he'd carefully drawn his route on. Gregory reached upwards, having to strain a bit to reach the stop request rope, and he nearly bumped his nose on the seat in front of him when the driver slammed too abruptly on the brakes. Feeling a mixture of irritation and relief, he clutched his messenger bag closer to him and shuffled off the bus.

"Right. Well." He said to anchor himself.

This was a far cry from the gated community he'd come from. Dilapidated buildings filled the streets, many shop windows either boarded up or slathered with tangles of graffiti. It was even worse than he'd imagined when studying up on the Christophe's family's neighborhood, worse even than he'd seen on those crass little American gangster movies. Gregory glanced around with some trepidation, waiting for men with baggy pants and sideways hats to emerge from the shadows, but then he shook his head to clear that ridiculous image and pulled the map back open.

It took over fifteen minutes for Gregory to stand in front of the DeLourne house, and he was rather relieved to see that compared to the ones around it, it appeared well kept. There were even two small rows of flowers in front of the windows, which was a welcome sight to a rich boy surrounded by a world of peeling paint and rusted cars.

He smoothed his hair back before he knocked sharply on the door, politician's smile planted firmly on his lips. When a woman answered, he adjusted it and made it softer, widening his eyes and closing his lips over his teeth. It appeared to work, and she smiled sweetly back and said something in French. His smile faltered. He'd only been getting lessons in German this year, and French wouldn't be on the school's curriculum until the following grade. He made a mental note to attempt some self study once he got home.

"'Ello? Can I 'elp you?" She finally amended, in English.

"Yes, please. Might I have a word with Christophe?" He said, the image of politeness.

"Hmm…" The woman paused for a minute, biting her lower lip. Gregory used this pause to store her features into his memory. Her brown hair was the same shade of dark brown as Christophe's, and, combined with the similar noses and long eyelashes, he was confident in his guess that she was probably his mother.

"'E iz supozed to be thinking about 'ow naughty 'e was earlier, but…" Her hazel eyes studied his face for a moment, and Gregory let himself look downcast at the thought of not being let in. She sighed, and stood back, motioning for him to come in.

Gregory did so, greeted instantly to a smell much like pine and fireworks.

"'E iz in zeh back yard."

As Gregory followed the woman through the house, he glanced around, taking in the clean but bare interior. There weren't picture frames or decorative things anywhere, from what he could see, and when they passed the kitchen there was only a small wooden table with basic wooden chairs. Efficient, but not ornate. He stored this knowledge away for later.

The backyard was a surprise.

It was fenced in by high boards, blocking any outside view, perhaps to hide the state of disarray inside. Small patches of lawn were dotted between large circles of raw earth – filled in holes. Ms. DeLourne approached the one to the left of the yard that was still empty, and peered over into it.

"Christophe, you 'ave a little friend 'ere to see you!" She called, and though her voice was sweet, there seemed to be a bit of a sharp undercurrent to her tone. Gregory wasn't surprised. His own mother would be simply mortified if he'd dug their backyard into shambles. He watched her go back into the house, and then turned his gaze back to the hole, approaching it cautiously.

He was a couple feet away when he saw fingers grip the rim of the pit, soon followed by an arm and then a body. Christophe paused while pulling himself out upon seeing Gregory, lips tightening into a thin line and eyes narrowing.

Gregory cleared his throat. "You may not remember me, but m-"

"I know who you are." Christophe interrupted, tugging himself up the rest of the way. "But what I do not know iz, why you are 'ere." He took a couple steps towards the blond aggressively, a bit like a chained cur when someone entered into their territory.

Gregory swallowed, but didn't allow himself to look intimidated.

"You know who I am?" He repeated, and it was a bit of an instinctual reminder. To any of his circle, it would have caused them to back off, to defer, but to Christophe it only seemed to increase the aggression in his body language.

"Oui, I know who you are!" He snapped, grinding his foot in the ground like someone putting out a cigarette. "You are zeh reech cocksucker who expects me to lick your ass jeest because of your family name!"

No one in his entire life had ever, _ever_, talked to Gregory that way. He blinked, too stunned for a moment to formulate a response. For the briefest of seconds, he could feel his throat tightening and a stinging at the corners of his eyes, but he shoved the childish instincts aside swiftly. He was a Thorne, and they were men of pride and logic, not silly kindergarten emotion.

"Well, you're a very contemptible person!"

Thorne's were also supposed to be smooth, but, er… Gregory pulled himself together as Christophe scoffed, made a rude motion with a couple of his fingers, turned around, and jumped back down into the hole in quick succession.

Gregory went to the brim and peered down into it. At first it appeared empty, and that the other boy had somehow vanished, but closer inspection revealed that it was much deeper than he'd guessed it would be, and was less of a hole than it was a tunnel. He bit his lower lip, deliberating. The months hadn't added mud to his 'like list', and he got a sense that following Christophe down into it was as ill-advised as following a badger into its den. Still, he'd come all this way for a reason, and he hadn't braved public transport to be stopped by some ruffian's bad temper.

With only a brief twinge of mourning for his cleanly pressed clothing, Gregory leapt.

He landed harder than he'd meant to, and staggered onto his hands and knees before he regained balance. Making sure not to look at the stains that were probably on his trousers now, he stood and ventured into the tunnel without a backwards glance. It was large for a tunnel, but much smaller than Gregory liked. He had to stoop over a bit and keep his arms clamped close to his sides to prevent brushing against the dirt walls or ceiling, and the light disappeared after only a few steps. More crushing than the space and lack of light, however, was the thick scent of nothing but earth. Within seconds his lungs felt full, and he was sure he'd be crushed by heavy the smell alone.

His steps faltered.

"Wait, Christophe, please. I've got a proposition." He said, voice lower than it would have been outside in the fresh air. There wasn't an answering voice, but he could hear a rhythmic sound up ahead – like a shovel hitting the ground.

He started edging forward cautiously again. The muddled darkness made it impossible for him to see how close he was getting, but suddenly there was dirt being thrown in his face.

Spluttering, both out of anger and 'augh, dirt in mouth', Gregory staggered backwards a couple of steps, and then drew himself up to his full height – bumping his head and making a small shower of grit rain down. Now both repulsed and irritated, he stomped his foot.

"I will not be bullied just be-" He was cut off when there were suddenly hands gripping his shirt. Christophe's face loomed up only a few inches from his own, barely visible in the darkness.

"Non!" He said, voice like a snarl. "It iz I who weel not be bulied jeest because of your fucking last name!" He gave Gregory a little shake. "You think I weel just bow and scarpe and kees your fucking boots like my fazzer does to your fazzer, and zat I weel-"

"It's against my father!" Gregory finally cut in. Christophe paused, but his grip didn't loosen. Gregory took this as a sign to keep talking. "Well, I think it might be against his wishes, at least." He looked down at where his shirt was being held pointedly, but got no response.

"I have a job for you, if you're interested. A mission, I'd venture to say." Christophe was still silent, so Gregory cleared his throat and stared again at the spot where his fingers were wrinkling his shirt.

"And why do you think I can 'elp you?" He finally said.

"Let's talk where we can see each other." Gregory said, and stepped back. The French boy made a discontent sound, but let the blond tug himself out of his grasp.

Hoping he'd hooked enough of the other's interest, Gregory practically fled out of the dank tunnel, taking in a deep breath of clear air the second the sun was once again revealed. For a second he wondered about the state of his own clothes, but decided to postpone his inevitable discomfort by avoiding looking down.

A full minute passed staring into the murky tunnel, but he held his position.

"Talk, beetch." A piece of the darkness moved, and Gregory trained his eyes on it, wondering how long the other had been standing there.

"Right, shall I start off on how I knew to come to you?"

Silence.

"Well then, a few months ago, my father let slip that your father was starting your training in something." Gregory clearly remembered that conversation – it'd revolved around his mother placing her heel down on allowing his father to reveal more about their so called 'family business'. He'd thrown a bit of a tantrum upon hearing the news that the flower-pot-throwing-rouge was allowed knowledge he was allegedly too young for.

Christophe moved closer to the end of the tunnel, and Gregory allowed himself a dramatic pause where he glanced under his nails and grimaced.

"A few months ago I saw our parents conversing, and happened to overhear one term of interest." Blue eyes met brown. "Mercenary." The words Mr. Thorne had actually used were 'our pet mercenaries', but Claude had looked so enraged by that endearment that he left it off now.

He'd hoped for a pointed reaction, but got nothing.

"I can reward you quiet handsomely," he continued, "I've been carefully storing away my allowance. You can buy whatever you like. More shovels, perhaps? You could afford a hundred if you're able to do it."

He actually had much more than that saved away, but why play the full hand if a couple cards would do? Christophe looked interested – well, his glare had taken on a more contemplative depth, at least. Probably.

He was infuriatingly hard to read.

"What iz zis job?" he finally said, edging out into the pit properly. The fit with the two of them was a bit tight, and Gregory suspended his dislike of getting his clothes dirty in order to back up and lean against the dirt wall. He glanced conspiratorially upwards, as if he was checking for eavesdroppers.

"Six days ago someone very important to me disappeared." He whispered, heart quickening now that he'd gotten to his whole reason for being there.

"I believe it was an inside job. Neither of my parents were very fond of Maximus."

"Mazeemus?" Chritophe's voice was low too, and he leaned in a bit despite himself. "What kind of a fucking name iz Mazeemus?"

Gregory paused, and rubbed the fingertips together on one hand nervously.

"He's my dog."

There was a minute of silence, and then suddenly he was shoved hard against the dirt. "Iz zis a reech beetch's idea of a joke? Becauze you-"

Gregory shoved him back.

"Maximus is best friend, I'd do anything for him!" He stomped his foot, glaring at Christophe, who's eyes had widened.

"He iz a fucking dog!"

The French boy looked like he was on the edge of lunging at him again, so Gregory held up his hands, though he doubted they'd be much of a buffer.

"It's a job." He said.

Christophe stared at him, still tensed to strike for far longer than was comfortable. Finally he straightened, and started to chew on his nails. Gregory decided it'd be detrimental to look repulsed.

"I've collected a great deal of information." He said, a hint of smugness in his voice. "I believe that's my family's part of the mutual arrangement?"

He turned partially away and stared up, and up, and up… Huh, the hole seemed even deeper from down here. "We shall discuss more details in a more civilized spot, I presume?" A small cough, and he looked hopefully around for a latter and found none.

"Perhaps you could give me a hand up?" He said, staring expectantly at Christophe, who instead made the rude motion with two of his fingers again.

Gregory turned back to the dirt wall, and cringed. After a moment's pause, he thought of Maximus's face and sank his manicured nails into the soil.

Oh, what a man would do for his dog…


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Hey, can anyone recommend any good songs for this pairing. I've just been listening to Natlie Kills Bad girl for Christophe, and Kings and Queens for Gregory. I'd be nice to get some muse music.

For all of the intense secrecy surrounding his family's business, it had been shockingly easy to see through Maximus's disappearance. As if he wouldn't have noticed that the hole in the high fences around their estate had just miraculously appeared that morning - or that the damage to the metal was too regular; more like the result of clippers to dog teeth. So Maximus had just slipped off the morning after the well known guard dog breeder had inexplicably visited? Right-to, of course father. No, of course he wouldn't cry, mother, really now, how old did they presume him to be?

Gregory was six, and he wouldn't despair.

He'd rectify it.

The blond had kept his mouth shut, feigning a dejected and childish run to shut himself back up into his room, whilst really only going there to gather his things.

Maybe his parents should have thought harder before buying him that detective's kit for his birthday...

"Give me ze short verzion, or non' at all." Christophe snapped. Again Gregory was riding the cesspit that was known as the bus, only minutes away from their destination.

He frowned in irritation at the impatience and the fact that his tale of the truly-riveting and ingenious way of gaining the location and identity of the dog-napper was being tread upon.

"As I was saying, I knew my father would always check his email around teatime, and setting up both distractions was remarkably easy. Four months back, I'd been given a kit containing fingerprint powder, and research allowed me to find out exactly what compounds can wipe it away without a trace in just an instant. I simply- are you even listening?" Gregory had never met anyone so infuriating in his whole life!

Christophe was ripping at a gash in the seat in front of him, not even bothering to acknowledge the British boy's words. Gregory glared across the aisle separating them, cheeks tinged slightly red in anger. To say that he wasn't used to being ignored was an understatement - everyone had always fawned on him.

Perhaps to further distinguish how out of his element the rich boy was, the bus slammed to a halt, and sent him nearly sprawling. Christophe seemed to have experience with local transit (of course he did - Gregory thought nastily), and hadn't been phased. As the new people came down to find seats in the nearly full bus, he whipped his head up and stared with eyes burning like coals and a face pinched into a look of pure aggression. Wordlessly, he shoved the bag of supplies into the empty space on his chair, never breaking eye contact with the unlucky lady.

My lord, Gregory thought in a mixture of being impressed and appalled, I've employed a feral dog.

Oh well, he'd tamed Maximus, and all brutes needed was a firm hand.

"Christophe, now really, let her sit down." He commanded with the authority he'd used when he'd found his pet had chewed up his nice slippers.

Promptly, he was greeted to the two finger salute.

Spluttering, he barely noticed the woman sliding into his seat.

Until her stale perfume made him want to gag.

Dozens of balloons waved from the mailbox attached to the iron front gate, currently swept open to let in the party goers and their parents. This was the reason that Gregory had waited three additional days to take the plan into action. Though she was a year above him in school, his research had revealed that the daughter of the dog-thief Dr. Raglan was having a birthday party today. It was unlikely that he'd be detected as an uninvited interloper, with all the countless children running about. The Raglans were an upper middle class family, lacking the prestige of the Thorne's, but relatively wealthy. New money, his mother liked to call it - none too kindly. Gregory, with his pressed clothes and perfect curls would pass easily amongst them. Christophe, however…

Despite being commanded to show up in his finest, the french boy had climbed onto the bus with the same get up he'd had before, a dirt streaked grey shirt and cargo trousers, though with the addition of the rough looking and oversized green coat with a multitude of pockets. Gregory suspected that he'd been digging before arriving as well judging from the state of his cropped hair and smudged skin, though an alternate horror could have been that the other boy hadn't bathed since that day.

Ugh, simply ghastly.

And ridiculously conspicuous.

They stopped with the balloons just in sight before ducking behind one of the many statues near the sidewalk for a quick briefing.

"Right," Gregory said decisively, "as you'd stand out too much in polite company, we'll have to enter separately."

He pulled a neatly folded piece of paper out of his pocket and spread it out against the granite at their feet.

"This," he said pointing to a rectangle behind the square of the back yard, "is where he's said to keep the dogs during the day. There may be an isolation building for any new animals he gets - though I'd be shocked if Maximus was there. Surely he must know that nothing from our house (his chest swelled with importance) could be sickly. However, as an... Unfettered male, he may be held apart from the rest for now."

He tapped the house square. "I will go in from the front and search inside, on the chance that he's kept even further apart. Truly, I haven't the foggiest why they took him in the first place - he doesn't at all match up with the Raglan's ideal."

Or his parents ideal, he thought privately.

"You, on the other hand, shall circle around and dig into the kennel itself. Something of the utmost importance to remember is the command I've given you. You must remember if you are to call off the dog's training." The blond boy stared hard at the other, who'd remained silently staring at the map. He looked up sullenly, brown eyes meeting blue.

Gregory scoffed. "Do you even recall?" He asked, eyebrows raised.

Christophe grunted.

"That is not an answer."

"Oui, parle à mon cul, ma tête est malade!"

"I haven't the foggiest what you said, however, I shan't despair if you get ripped apart. Brute." The rich boy said, huffing and feeling deeply offended from just the other's tone. He stood and turned sharply on his heel to go, jerking back in surprise when his wrist was suddenly gripped very tight.

"Take zis, muzzer fucker," Christophe said, pressing something into his hand and letting go. Gregory stared down at the simple black watch, and then back at his hire with confusion for a second before realization hit.

"Oh, but of course, synchronized watches. Let us meet at the last bus stop in, say, forty five minutes?" He said, quickly recovering from being impressed.

The french boy's head jerked up and down (a nod?), and walked away with two fingers raised back in that rude motion.

Getting into the party had been as easy as he'd assumed, especially with the wrapped present (Susan had better treat his regifted teddy bear with care) in his arms. Innocently, he milled with the crowd in the front room, smiling and talking in his most endearing fashion to adults - purposely dropping consonants to sound younger. Slipping into the rooms on the ground floor was simple enough, and even making it up the stairs seems to go unnoticed. Cautiously, with the theme of James Bond in his head, he peeked into each room. The one at the very end of the hall was locked, though his soft calls for his canine's attention remained unanswered from within. He was just considering getting out the picks he'd gotten in his detective kit and attempting to use them when a butler crested the stairs.

Gregory stuck his thumb in his mouth and stared up, eyes wide - infecting himself with the look of an intimidated child. "Potty." He said, in a weak whine. The servant fell for it - Gregory was small yet for a boy his age - and lead him to the right room.

Right. So Maximus wasn't in the house, unless there was a basement level. For now, he'd move on to the next part.

The back yard was spacious and filled with children. A row of bouncy castles quivered, the red and yellow plastic garish against the green lawn as kids pummeled their insides. Gregory had a brief second of lounging, though he brushed it off. He was on a mission, and the castles weren't going to be his distracting damsels.

Behind the picnic tables heaped with food and cake, was a high iron gate. Through the bars, he saw the chain link fence surrounding the kennels. A few doberman lingered close by, noses lifted to take in the scent of barbequed ribs and hamburgers. Hmm... Six. The breeder's site had listed nine. Had Christophe already made his way inside without raising a fuss, or should Gregory attempt to smooth his way by distracting as many of the beasts as he could? Carefully, he grabbed up a couple chicken legs inside a napkin and darted his hands through the bars and into the wide links. At once the dogs were up on their feet, some suspicious, and others eager.

He was just about to attempt a second and more prolific meat deposit when there was an eruption of barking from the small white building inside the kennel. Instantly, the other dogs joined in, rushing towards the sound - a gaggle of snarls and sharp teeth.

As people turned to look, Gregory's mind sped through the options for distractions.

Fake an injury and begin to scream bloody murder? Knock the grill over into one of the tables, hoping the result was a fire? A hundred different scenarios rushed through his calm mind, but he didn't have a chance to enact a single one.

The door to the small building slammed open, and Christophe shot out into the waiting mass of dogs. Lurching back, he yelled the command word for stop attack and friend that Gregory had taught him, and the canines retreated back in nervous and halting obedience.

All except one.

Maximus, thick muscles rippling under his short grey fur, leapt from inside to close his jaws around the french boy's sleeve. Shaking him as if he were a rag doll, he quickly had the other off his feet and dragged halfway back inside. Feeding into the aggression, a couple of the doberman lunged forward to join.

Hearing a tangled mess of french and "sheet!", Gregory reacted before the adults. Blowing his cover, he yelled "Maximus, heel!" forcefully.

People moved out of his way in confusion as the blond darted across the yard and to the backgate. Getting past it, he called for his dog again, smacking his hands to rattle the fencing. His beloved companion broke from the group - dashing back to his master. Gregory starred as Max attempted to lick him through the links, distracted from his bubble of happiness at the reunion as a pair of adults ran past him and into the kennel. With apprehension, he watched as they drew closer to the fallen boy, who surprised them all by jumping up and running as soon as the dogs were distracted.

Following their instincts, some gave chase, and the blond was still holding his breath as they went out of sight.

"Blast." He said, an understatement of the year.

William stared at him icily from across the limo, his back straight and mouth a thin line. Maximus drooled onto Gregory's lap, soaking the material through.

Gregory cleared his throat nervously, his mind a mess of apprehension and defiance. "Just, ah, up here, father." He said weakly. His dad motioned to the driver (how did he see behind him so easily? wasn't he supposed to keep his eyes on the road), and the smooth black car glided to a stop next to the bus sign.

"I will just be a moment." He said, his voice a weak fishing line in the undertow of his father's disapproval.

Christophe wasn't at there, but signs of him were. Little drops of blood (Gregory felt queasy with the sight) littered the pavement, leading him to the alley behind. Trailing the dots, he found the french boy curled into a ball on the other side of a dumpster. Tentatively, he reached out and touched a shoulder-

And found himself being slammed into the ground. Christophe was above him, hands around his throat, hissing a slur of angry words that might have been English, French, or both. Gregory scrambled against his hands, alarmed to find his hands slipping and sliding against something slick.

Red. Red. Red.

It was on the other boy's face and drenched one of his arms through the ripped fabric. He was being shaken, his head bouncing into the ground and confusing his vision.

For a moment Gregory thought he would die - that he would be killed under this clearly insane kid. Making a desperate and weak sound (he would always remember that whimper - that embarrassing noise that was to be his last), he watched the bloody and dirt streaked face above him as its expression wavered from rage to uncertainty to cold.

He was released, and Gregory gasped, terror still thick in his veins. The rich boy curled up on his side, tucking his head between his arms with his knees against his nose, and shook as the pain and fear racked over him.

When he had the willpower to move from this protective pose - in what felt like an eternity, the British boy saw the feral, no, rabid french cur staring at him with blank eyes.

Composure. It was the most important thing to a gentleman of a Thornes' class. Thrusting all his feelings into a bundle deep away in the back of his mind to be the subject of nightmares later, Gregory sat up and pretended as if nothing had just passed between them.

"Those injuries look rather ghastly." He said, motioning up and down. His voice was rough, throat sore and dry.

"Becauze of your muzzer fuckeen dog! I 'ate dogz, mangey beetches-" and it continued in french.

"Yes, ah, I apologize." He held up his hands, as it looked as if he was about to be jumped yet again.

"Listen, I said sorry! I'll pay extra, I didn't foresee him finding you a threat at all! Please, be reasonabl-"

It was the first time in his life that Gregory had ever been smacked. Tears started to sting in the corners of his eyes out of humiliation, though the six year old hadn't surcome to them in the more serious attack minutes before. The blond jerked away and hid his face behind his hands for a moment to regain composure, reaching out and snagging the other boy's pants as he tried to storm by.

Again his hand felt wet, revealing another wound on the French boy's calf. Christophe hissed and jerked away, catching himself against the alley wall.

Gregory stood, and straightened himself to his full height despite the grime and new blood on his clothes.

"Today's mission was a failure due to my inexperience. It will never happen again." He said.

There was a strange sense of resolution he hadn't felt before, a sort of 'right'ness that had slipped into his skin and wrapped itself around his bones like strengthening wire.

"Come with me, and I'll have my parents deal with your injuries. Then, you shall spend the night, and we can discuss your payment and my failings to avoid them in the future."

Christophe stared at him, face devoid of any expression besides the default of slight irritation.

"And what iz it, zat you will assume zer will be a future?" He asked, voice impassive.

"Well, I'd rather like there to be." Gregory said, his new and strange resolve not quavering. What prompted this? For years to come, he'd ponder such a thing. Fate wasn't real - later in life, Christophe would rant multiple times to him about just that - and he'd be lying to say it was any kind of attraction - platonically childish or not. In fact, everything about the other boy was outright appalling at that moment in that dank alley.

Failure, perhaps? Perfection. Anything less than perfection was not acceptable. He'd learn from the mistakes of today and grow. He'd never fail again.

Meanwhile, the silence stretched between them.

"Non." Christophe finally said, sounding just the smallest bit uncertain.

Gregory frowned, running a hand through his own hair in nerves at being shot down.

"I, er, have a lovely garden. We... We can dig holes." He said, removing the image of his scandalized mother from his mind.

Another pause.

"Non." Came the reply, though if he wasn't mistaken, there was a hint of humor both in his voice and in his dark eyes.

"I do not want my parents to know about today," Christophe continued, to the blond's surprise, "perhapz in a couple of dayz?"

"How ever will you hide your wounds?" Gregory asked.

"Zey are not zat bad, I will just zay a stray happened upon me."

There was another silent moment, this time contemplative.

Gregory stretched out his hand, and it hovered between the two of them like crossroads. Christophe took it, and gave it one hard shake.

AN: Sorry I was gone so long. RL stuff. War. Y'know how it goes. The netbook I kept my notes for this on is long gone, but it's been hovering in my mind all this time. Now that I'm back, I decided to just wing it. Feels very refreshing, actually, though please do tell me if you think I should calm my butt down and spend more time letting chapters sit so I can read them over for mistakes. It's hard to catch them when I throw chapters online as soon as they're finished, but it feels good, strangly. I just wanna write the billion chapters of this already. xD


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